Philia
by OsricPearl
Summary: What may have crossed Jiraiya's mind the moment he realised he could not bring Orochimaru back. One shot. JiraiyaOrochimaru. Not Yaoi.


**AN:** I forgot to add this when I first posted the story, because it was so late. I don't own the characters, of course, and the story line is not mine either. They are Kishimoto's.

Blood is thicker than water, but where there is no blood, water must suffice. And when bonds cannot be forged by nature, bonds attached in life must take their place. This is what he had always thought, and what had kept his spirits all those years.

Both had been orphaned, products of the brutal period that had marked his birth. And through their orphanage, they became brothers. Far from mirror images, their contrast belied their lack of familial blood. As light and wild as his hair grew, his brother's was darker than shadow, and as shimmering and smooth as exquisite silk. Pale skin, which radiated a glow as pure as the moon itself, contrasted with his brown, earthen tan.

He was rugged and round, but his brother looked deceptively delicate and sickly. Small features that deftly masked his experience, giving the impression of innocence, composed his face. At the tender age of ten, the year they began fighting in earnest, he gutted his first nameless victim. The poor sap never saw it coming, so disarmed was he by the prettiness of his killer.

With him -with them- everything missing was gained. Their tiny unit became his family. The dark haired youth embodied the older bother he lacked: a protector in times of danger, a rival of Sarutobi-sensei's, his father figure's, praise, and finally, a mark by which he used to measure his strength. But now, holding his bleeding side, a testament to his recent encounter, only regret marked his generally jovial face.

"Orochimaru," he whispered to himself hoarsely. "Where did I go wrong?"

Of course he blamed himslef, who else was there? Tsunade? She was so self-centered, he was sure she didn't even notice when the change began to take place. As dear as she was to him, even he knew that she rarely saw outside her own immediate concerns. How could she have detected the change?

Sarutobi-sensei, that old man, had been blinded by his own paternal inclinations to notice until the change became irrevocable. That perverted old geezer had been too busy with his ideals and his books to see what was developing before him.

He had invested so much of himself on that dark-haired prodigy: his hopes, his dreams, and his future, that his heartbreak was severe. For years, all of Orochimaru's faults were white-washed pure, and his flaws expertly overlooked. And when his eyes were finally opened, love gave him false hope. He thought that keeping him by his side would lessen the corruption. Even in the end, when the full extent of his depravity was discovered, the old man couldn't kill him.

_I held myself back too, didn't I,_ was the bemused thought as he gazed at his bloodied had.

Only he noticed when Orochimaru quietly lost his humanity, exchanging his bonds for the hope of the everlasting. He didn't know what it was at first, only that after a time, his eyes no longer held his with the warmth of comradeship but gazed past him with lifeless indifference. It incited pain. At that moment, he knew he knew his brother was gone, although he denied it for longer than he was willing to admit.

Curiosity drove him to darkend paths and through empty halls, searching for that snake's lair. Until last he found the reason for Orochimaru's transformation. What he saw destroyed him. In all the wars they fought together, he had never seen something so horrifying.

The bodies of the the dead were laid out by the dozens. Their contorted faces were a grim snapshot of their last painful moments. He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. These men were no enemies, strung up by their withered hands; their entrails dangling from their hollowed torsos. These men were no threat. Some of these unfortunates he knew as children. No, the threat was the very man he had trusted, and the very blade that had sliced away their life.

But even then, had he the power, he would have kept his brother by his side. It didn't matter how many he had killed. After all, even he, the kindest of the Sannin, knew selfishness. What mattered more than anything was keeping his family intact.

This had been years ago, but still he chased him, trying to secure his return. But that man always slithered by, inflicting the occasional bite, mocking his pain.

Only ten minutes ago, Orochimaru left him broken and bleeding, certain that his last bond was severed at last. Now, he understood, although he didn't want to, that after this fight, there was nothing else to do. In desperation he entreated him, bringing to mind their past, but Orochimaru, that bastard, only laughed.

"All those times we fought together. Do they mean nothing to you?"  
"Idiot Jiraiya, stop wasting my time with such nonsense," Orochimaru sneered.  
"But I thought we were friends," he replied in dismay. _Brothers, _he corrected in his mind.  
"That means nothing!" Orochimaru yelled back as he rushed at him with the intent to kill.

Of course, Jiraiya was nowhere near death. That fool of a brother never did think much of him. Even after meeting the toads, and gaining formidable power, Orochimaru still underestimated his strength. So that snake felt no need to fight with full strength. Jiraiya was simply unwilling. Could it be that perhaps, even in his darkness, a part of him still remembered what they had?

_No, you fool, _Jiraiya cursed himself.

That's when the words of the venerable toad sage entered his mind.

_You will wander the world and see many great things, _they echoed strongly, mere figment of his cloistered youth.

"Orochimaru, if you will not return, then I shall follow you. I will be within your shadow. I may not have been able to bring you back, but I will ensure that you will never destroy our home."

He swore this by the blood that flowed freely from his side. He swore this by the pain he felt in his ribs and arms. He swore it with every labored breath.

And he would wander the world and see many great things, following the winding paths his brother wove. No one would ever see his grief, of that he was sure. He would bury it under wine, women, and song as he always did, until the pain became too unbearable and he was forced to move on.  
They should have killed him. They should have killed him long ago. But something always held them back.

Orochimaru was right, they were pathetic. Weak, that's what they were. Weakness, that elixir that clouded their judgment and staid their hand at the last moment, was their liquor of choice. It helped them forget. It was an opiate. Their weakness was love.


End file.
